


Every Eventuality

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Hustle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-21
Updated: 2005-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 04:05:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1630586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Danny is not thinking about Mickey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Eventuality

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Yasmin

 

 

Danny has been sitting in the same chair in the same bar for an hour and a half, waiting for his bloody mark to show up. He's wearing a shiny shirt he doesn't like, he's read the sign about extended opening hours a hundred times, and his arse is going numb.

He hates playing the decoy.

"Why can't you do it?" he'd said to Mickey earlier - and it was saying, not whining.

It *was*.

"You're the pretty one," Mickey said, but it didn't come out like a compliment, like you'd think, it came out like Danny was a muppet who needed everything explaining to him sixty thousand times.

Danny is not a muppet. He doesn't need things explaining more than once if they make sense, either. He knows, for example, why Stacie won't be of any use in this instance, and why the decoy has to match the mark. He understands *things* just perfectly, thank you, it's all crystal.

It's bloody nonsense he has trouble grasping on the first go.

"At the risk of inflating that ego of yours any further, I might point out that you're not exactly Quasimodo yourself, mate." Danny knew arguing was a waste of time, but there was nothing else to do and his Nan always said he should try to keep busy. "I don't see what's stopping you from doing it yourself."

"You're better at it," Mickey replied, and what he meant was 'I'm better at the other things' and Danny didn't want to get into all that, so he shut up and grumpily made three beer mats disappear up his sleeve while Mickey was going over the rest of the plan.

No, hang on. Smoothly. He *smoothly* made three beer mats disappear up his sleeve while Mickey was going over the rest of the plan.

Stupid Mickey. Danny is *not* thinking about him.

"C'nIbuyewuhdrink?"

There's a man, no, a boy, standing at Danny's arm.

The boy coughs, colours slightly, and tries again. "Can I - I mean - can I buy you a, a drink? Maybe?"

Danny just looks at him. He can't be more than seventeen.

"No," says the boy, "right. Of course not. Well. Okay." He turns to walk away.

"Hold on," says Danny, who is bored and tired of waiting for a mark who can't be on time, for God's sake. "I'll have a pint of lager, please."

***

He's not Danny's type at all - he's a bloke, for a start - but Jesus Christ he's pretty. He says his name's Billy, and he's an exchange student.

He's lying of course, Danny's a con man and he knows wool when it's being pulled over his eyes - but Billy actually suits the kid. It's short and square-cut just like he is, and Danny's not about to start telling his own life story, is he? So he can let a bit of dishonesty slide.

Billy lies about studying history, and being over eighteen. Danny lies about being in marketing and being under twenty-five, and they both lie about why they're sitting in a bar with someone they've never met before, drinking themselves into a pleasant buzz.

Mickey's right. Danny *is* good at this. He's good at making strangers want to spend time with him, let him into their lives. He's good at putting smiles on faces and twinkles in eyes and the slightest twinge of regret in his voice when he says he's got to go, when he's got what he needs.

The thing is, though, that Danny doesn't need anything from Billy. Billy's not a mark who needs reeling in or a cog in one of Mickey's complicated plans. (Stupid Mickey. Danny is *not* thinking about him.) He's just a bloke, and Danny is just having a drink with him, and it's Danny's face that's got the smile on it.

It could be, Danny muses, eyeing Billy over the top of his pint, that Billy's trying to con *him*. Except - no, because Danny's got nothing to be conned out of and anyway, he'd know. He'd know because Billy'd be talking about football or Paul Smith's new jeans range or annoying men with superiority complexes whose names rhyme with Dicky Pricks. He wouldn't be talking about - what is he talking about?

"...make-up," Billy is saying when Danny tunes back in. "I mean, how do they get it to stay on under those lights? It must be so hot on stage - man, it's like magic. I love it. Cats is by far the best show I've ever seen - way better than Les Miserables, man. How boring can you get? People go to shows to be happy and escape their lives, not to get a depressing history lesson on how awful life was for some unwashed French people, or whatever. Who cares about the French, anyway?"

He carries on babbling, and Danny turns his attention back to his (fifth, or is it sixth?) pint and wonders how it is he came to be spending an afternoon with a mentalist who's got a hard on for musicals, of all things.

Danny hates musicals, although he does agree about the French. The point is, Billy is sitting there lost in his own little world, pink-faced with excitement as he bangs on about some other 'awesome show' where grown men voluntarily nance about in leotards, and he wouldn't be doing that if he were trying to con Danny. The conversation would be focused on something Danny gives half a toss about and Danny would be the one doing the talking.

So while Billy's bloody weird, he's probably *not* a grifter, and that makes him safe, and that makes Danny happy because you can't bonk someone if you're expecting them to make off with your life savings the moment you close your eyes.

Not that Danny has any life savings. Or that he's planning to bonk Billy, necessarily. Mickey's always saying they shouldn't fraternise (fraternise! Who says fraternise?) with people outside the crew unless they're absolutely sure there's no way they're being set up - but Mickey's a stupid dickhead a lot of the time and that thought's enough to bring Danny to his feet. He bloody *can* bonk Billy if he wants, and Mickey can kiss his arse.

Billy finishes draining his pint and looks up at Danny, enormous blue eyes and odd sticky-up hair that makes him look like a bleeding flower fairy or something. He licks beer off his lower lip. Christ. "Are you leaving?"

"Nah." Danny shrugs his jacket on, patting his pockets for his wallet, phone and keys. "Thought you might want to come back to mine, like. I've got, er..." Danny racks his brains "...I've got Chicago on DVD."

He has. It's Mickey's. Danny stole it last time he was round at Mickey's flat.

Heh.

"Cool!" Billy enthuses, nearly knocking his empty glass over in his haste to untangle his legs from the bench they've been sitting on. He bounces to his feet, all smiles, and Danny wonders exactly how *not* over eighteen he really is.

Mickey's got this bee in his bonnet about sex with minors ever since they almost got done for Stacie working her magic on a couple of kids a few jobs back, and -

The mark. Side door, just coming through. Clean-shaven, dark suit, briefcase just like Mickey said. Heading for the bar, one hand in his pocket, nice and tidy, all ready for Danny to swoop in and start the game.

"Kid," says Danny, swinging his arm around Billy's shoulders in a way that lets him keep his eyes on the mark. "I've just remembered I've got to make a couple of phonecalls, yeah? Here's twenty quid," he tucks two tenners into the pocket of Billy's denim jacket, "you grab a taxi and I'll be right behind, you, eh?"

"But where-"

The mark's looking.

"Forty-two," says Danny, giving it his best, most open face, "Harbours Court." He taps the side of Billy's face. "Right behind you, mate."

Billy doesn't look sure, but he toddles off. Worst case scenario - Billy makes off with Danny's twenty quid. Best case scenario, Billy turns up naked at forty-two Harbours Court and pays Stacie back for not telling Danny the girl he was chatting up last week was a prostitute.

Bloody two hundred quid. Christ.

The mark's looking again.

Danny smoothes himself down, and puts on his Interesting and Alluring face as he saunters across the bar and slides into the empty chair next the mark.

"Pint of your finest, barkeep," he says. He turns to the mark. "And whatever you're having, mate."

The game's on.

***

"I thought you were busy," says the mark as Danny touches a hand to the small of his back, nudging him towards the exit.

"What, me?" Danny turns a full beamer on the mark. "Nah. I'm all yours, mate."

They catch a taxi outside. After climbing in, the mark says, "That boy, in the bar. I didn't interrupt anything, I hope?"

"What, him? Just a kid." Danny shrugs and slides imperceptibly closer to the mark. "So tell me more about this business of yours."

"I should hate to think I'd inconvenienced you in any way." They're in the lift, now, heading up to the mark's room at his very nice hotel. Danny's glad he isn't paying for it. "We can postpone this meeting if it's going to put you out."

"What, back then in the bar? That was nothing, mate, just a young lad out for a good time, that's all."

The mark doesn't look convinced. He's hiding it well, but he's not happy, and so Danny steps in front of him, puts his hands on the mark's face and says, "Mickey."

Mickey rolls his eyes. "I thought I told you not to break character."

Danny rolls his own. "I wouldn't have had to if you hadn't gone all stroppy on me!"

"I was trying to give you a genuine experience, Danny." Mickey's using his most annoyingly superior tone. "If you're going to be the decoy then I need to know that you'll see the game through, no matter what reaction your mark might have or what might happen."

Danny folds his arms and doesn't say anything.

Silence. Why did Mickey get a room on the five millionth floor, anyway?

"Who was he, anyway?" says Mickey after a bit.

"I told you." Danny puts his hands in his back pockets. "Just some kid."

"And you thought it would be fine to fraternise-"

"No one says fraternise."

"To fraternise with strangers while you were supposed to be on a job?"

Danny loses his temper and turns to Mickey. "You were bloody two hours late! What was so important that you couldn't be on time, eh?"

"I was trying to-"

"Prepare me for every eventuality, give me a genuine bloody experience, yeah, yeah, I've heard it before." The lift dings and Danny shoves his way out of the doors before they've fully opened. "And if you're going to act like a jealous girlfriend because you've seen me with someone else, you should try being on time, yeah?"

"You make it sound like we were on a date."

Stupid annoying amused Mickey. Danny throws open the doors to the suite and heads straight for the mini bar. He doesn't *care* how much the vodka costs.

"Did it go well?" says Albert, sitting on the settee reading the paper.

Danny gives him a Look. "I don't want to talk about it."

Mickey comes in and shuts the door behind him. "We had a few teething problems."

Stacie curls up next to Albert on the sofa and raises an eyebrow. "Lover's tiff?"

"Shut *up*," Danny growls. "Bloody you be the decoy, then, if you're the one who's so good at it!"

"I've told you." Mickey looks straight at Danny, and Danny feels his ears go hot for no reason. "You're the pretty one."

Danny makes the noise he saves for occasions of extreme disgust, and heads off to get changed out of the stupid shiny shirt. Bloody Mickey and his obsession with controlling everything. Since when does he get to tell Danny what to *wear*?

Danny starts getting undressed.

He's not thinking about Mickey.

He's not.

 


End file.
